New York, Nu Yolk.

A hush of marmalade ashh reaches;
rooftops swaddled in Steam’s grasp tremble terra-cotta tears

of [salt ‘n vinegar] chips
tumbling, with conviction, to an untimely

demise.

They watch, shingles shivering, breathing
life unto New York’s souls.

They, who watch wistfully, subliminally
remind of sea-faring mothers;
once forgotten.

She rides, floating, among the feathers of our birds;
fused upon decadence: the street-zel’s crown jewel.

Her legacy, culture if you will, emanates
in the alleys of her relentless rodents;
her mascot knows, sees, feels,

all.

Her breath is the aroma of displaced decadencies,
perhaps this week’s trend, or my bleeding paper that holds

the scales upon which she resides.

“What’s for dinner?” they breathe…

“Home,” she replies.

 

GD

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